


Shelter from the Storm I and II

by Diana Williams (dkwilliams)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams
Summary: On the anniversary of a traumatic event in Mulder's life, his lover provides him shelter from the storm





	Shelter from the Storm I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Shelter from the Storm I: His Safe Place from the Storm by Diana Williams

 

* * *

His Safe Place from the Storm

"Come on out of the rain and into my arms  
Run to me, to a love that's safe and warm  
I'll be yours, baby,  
Your safe place from the storm"

 

He stands on my doorstep, dripping wet.

"Hi."

Wordlessly, I stand back and let him enter. I run a quick eye over him, assessing him for damage. None that I can see tonight. None external, anyway.

"Ever heard of an umbrella, Mulder? Wait here."

I fetch towels and my robe, and he strips with the ease of a child. I collect his soaked clothes and carry them into the laundry room.

"Have you eaten?"

Barefoot, wrapped in my robe, he follows me while toweling his hair.

"Jesus, Walter, you are obsessed with my stomach. Are you channeling a Jewish mother?"

The words are light and humorous, familiar words, part of our ritual. They do not hide the darkness underneath, the bleakness in his eyes. What is it now, I wonder? Another betrayal? Another argument with his partner - if those icy exchanges lately can be called arguing? Then I glance at the calendar hanging on the fridge and I realize what day it is.

"I take it that means no. Sit."

He drops into a chair in the breakfast area, finger-combing his damp hair, watching as I pull out a saucepan. We are silent but we do not need words. All the important ones were spoken between us long ago; we are comfortable with our silences.

I set the bowl of soup and grilled sandwich in front of him. Comfort food. A reminder of the happier days of his early childhood thirty years ago. Then I wander into the living room, add another log to the fire, turn on the game, settle down on the couch. He hates it when I watch him eat.

A short time later he wanders in, looking absurdly youthful in my too-big robe with his hair sticking up, and joins me on the couch. I reach over to pull him down so that his head is on my lap. He sighs, a little sound of contentment, and one hand curls against my knee. I run my fingers through his hair, still damp from the rain, and pick up my glass. Iced tea, not Scotch tonight. He hates it when I drink.

We watch the game in silence punctuated only by comments about the action on the screen. It is not much of a game, but it is another of our rituals. He needs these, some tangible sign that some things in this world stay the same. Especially on this day.

The news follows, then I turn off the TV and gently tug on his hair.

"Bed."

He lies in my arms, head resting on my shoulder, one leg flung across mine, sleeping the sleep of the sated. I have done my best for him this night, trying to exhaust him completely, to drive him past thought into oblivion. Past the reach of dreams or nightmares. I do not sleep; I will not sleep tonight, not while he is here, an all-too-infrequent presence in my bed. Tomorrow he will be gone, and then I will sleep and dream. Tonight is for him, for his needs. Tonight I will try to keep him safe from the storm.

I would be content to have his vital warmth beside me every night but that is not possible. When I first took him into my bed, I knew that there would not be a happy-ever-after to this story. I am not good with relationships, the day-to-day maintenance they require, and neither is he. And he is too honest to deny that a large part of his heart belongs to another, no matter how damaged the relationship between them is now.

He loves her. There may come a time when he spends this night in her bed, holding her tight, reassuring them both that she is still here, that she is safe. When - if - that day comes, I will let him go with a smile and a heavy heart. He is a cat, and one does not own a cat. For now, it is enough to know that he feels safe here in my arms. That I am the one he comes to when he is hurting, and that I can ease that pain for him. It is enough. It has to be enough.

And tonight, I can keep him safe from the storm.

 

* * *

 


End file.
